


The Different Lives of Marco Bodt

by NovelistAngel23



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Universe, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hispanic Marco Bodt, Implied Sexual Content, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Multi, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovelistAngel23/pseuds/NovelistAngel23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots dedicated to Marco Bodt for Marco Bodt Week on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cinnamon Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: Finals are over, and a random act of kindness teaches Marco to indulge himself.

“Tall Cinnamon Dolce, please?” Marco asked.

The man standing at the counter smiled at him and nodded. “That’ll be 3.95,” he responded, tapping the buttons on his cash register.

Marco already had it out, had been prepared since he’d walked in. He came to this Starbucks every Saturday, money in hand and cinnamon on his mind. He liked this one especially, despite it being at least two blocks farther from his dorm than the one closest.

There was an atmosphere to the little coffee shop that most Starbucks lacked. The seating was comfortable, and the lighting felt warm. The workers were nice—even the barista who’d just taken his order, who had sharp eyes and a resting bitch face that made most customers uncomfortable. Marco didn’t mind it.

After placing his order, Marco curled up in his usual place to wait for it to be finished; far from the window, in a secluded little booth where he knew from experience that he could study for hours. They never kicked him out.

That day, Marco didn’t actually need to study. Finals were over at last, and he’d been told he had nothing left to worry about. In preparation, he’d brought one of his favorite books and a pillow, and he planned on doing nothing but relaxing for once.

Of course, relaxing was kind of out of his league. He didn’t do well without pressure to keep him motivated. His eyes wandered from the pages of his book, and he found himself studying everything around him instead. There were few people in the shop so late in the afternoon, so he was free to lose himself in small details that most wouldn’t have noticed. The exact designs of the wire chairs. The chips in the wooden counter. The rings in the wooden table in front of him. The perfectly polished tiles that made up the floor.

Marco tapped his feet along to the quiet music playing inside the store. That was another thing he loved about this Starbucks. Whereas most played elevator music or pop music, this one played old music. Frank Sinatra at the moment, but more atmospheric music as well, from the forties and before that made Marco sway his knees beneath the table.

“Marco Bodt?” the barista called, interrupting his impromptu dance session.

Marco smiled and pushed himself out of the booth so he could walk over and grab his coffee. “Thank—“

He stopped when the barista slid a small package over to him beside his coffee. He glanced up at the man, cocking a curious eyebrow at him in questioning. He got a shy smile in return. “It’s this new cinnamon bun thing we’ve got going on. I heard finals were over for you guys, so as a reward,” he explained. He shrugged. “Congrats.”

Marco’s eyes zeroed in on the cashier’s nametag. Jean, it read, and he smiled. “Thank you, Jean,” he answered.

He curled his hands around his coffee and tucked the cinnamon bun underneath the cup. “Enjoy,” Jean responded, waving goodbye as Marco returned to his seat.

The cinnamon bun was sweet but not sweet enough to ruin his coffee, and after that, Marco found it a bit easier to indulge himself. He lost himself to the world of his book. He hummed along with the music without fear of being judged. He made up his mind to take that year long nap he needed later on that day. He remembered, for once, that he deserved it.


	2. Con Familia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco had almost forgotten how hectic his home got on days like this.

“Time to wake up!” Marco called into his sister’s room as he raced past it down the hall.

He didn’t stick around long enough to see her head pop out of her cocoon of blankets, still running after the energizer bunny that was his youngest sister. Naked save for a diaper and the beads in her already thick curls, Ana Bodt was far from ready.

Marco, however, was practiced at catching little girls by then. Longer legs helped, he supposed, when he caught up and simply stepped over her so he could pluck her off the ground.

She screamed, but there was a sense of delight in the way her mouth spread into a grin that pressed dimples into her cheeks. “Macko!” she squealed when he threw her over his shoulder. “No dwess, no dwess!”

Marco was more than used to the protest—he’d heard it in at least four different voices. “You’ll like it when you’re wearing it,” he assured, scurrying towards his mom’s room, on the opposite side of the hall. “I caught her!” he proclaimed.

His mother looked more than harried—her hair was only half straightened, she was still wearing her clothes from work, she only had her lipstick done. Marie Bodt sat on the edge of her bed, complaining about the jewelry her larger twin had stolen the day before. “I was going to wear it today!” she snapped.

Her sister poked her head out from their mother’s bathroom. “Just steal one of mine.”

“Your jewelry sucks!” she earned in reply.

“Purple dress for you, Ana,” Marco’s mom sighed, hurrying over and around the toys left on the floor to pull her squirming baby from his gentle grasp.

“I don’t like it!” she bawled once she was taken from her big brother.

Their mother merely planted a kiss on his cheek and then hers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sighed to him. Marco knew what she was apologizing for; he’d been home all of two hours, and he’d had exactly zero time to sit down. “I think your dress looks beautiful on you, _querida_ ,” she cooed to Anna as she speed-walked to the corner of the bed where the dress was laid out.

“Mama, she’s throwing pillows at me!” Maria screamed, before Marie punted another pillow at her face.

“Go wake up, Carmen, _mijo_ ,” his mother shooed to Marco, ripping a pillow out of Marie’s grasp with fire in her eyes.

Marco wisely backed out of the room and back down the hall in search of the second youngest sister. “Carmen,” he crooned, his polished dress shoes silent on the carpet. “Oh, Carmen?”

She was still lost in a ball of blankets on the bed, not even squirming as he stood in the doorway calling her name. “It’s time to get up,” he called.

She made a sound at that, a grunting, whining sort of, “No.”

Marco merely sighed, leaning back in the doorway and checking his nails. “Oh well. I guess Mama will just have to do your hair.”

The blankets went flying. “I’m up! I’m up!”

Marco snickered when he heard his mother call, “I heard that!”

Carmen was already mostly dressed, only missing her Mary Jane’s and hair. “Come on,” she hissed, scurrying over to her dresser and throwing her comb over her shoulder at him. “Before she comes for her revenge!”

Marco himself hadn’t had first hand experience with their mother’s habit of ripping heads off when she combed out her daughters’ hair, but he had heard all of the complaints secondhand at least. “Where are the beads?” he asked, his expression the most serious it had been all day. Hair combing was nothing to play around with.

Carmen was already way ahead of him, beads and pins and hairspray and cream laid out in front of her like the weaponry of a girl backed into a corner. “Let’s get this over with,” she huffed as Marco pulled over her desk chair to sit behind her.

Long legs also meant that he was almost six feet, and combing the hair of his four foot and counting little sister was impossible when he was standing. So instead he sat her in his lap, biting bobby pins between his teeth as he smoothed out tangles with the help of the cream. “Your hair has gotten so long,” he mumbled around the pins, smiling at their reflection together in the dresser mirror.

She merely huffed. “She won’t let me cut it,” she mumbled.

Marco raised an eyebrow at her. “Because your grades are crap,” he reminded her, picking a pin out from between his teeth. “And you don’t want to cut it—you want to dye it blonde.”

She crossed her arms. “It’d look nicer if it were blonde,” she replied.

Marco hummed questioningly in response. “You have Mama’s hair though,” he answered, shuffling the hair thing around his wrist up around his fingers. Carmen stayed silent, pouting until Marco raised an eyebrow at her. “What’s wrong with hair like Mom’s?” he asked, keeping his eyes averted so that she didn’t feel pressured to answer. He wanted her to answer on her own time.

She did take a moment, but it was just a shrug a minute later, once he’d manage to pin most of her wild curls into place. “We _all_ have Mama’s hair,” she replied.

He smiled, pulling the unneeded pins from his mouth and setting them on the dresser before hugging Carmen around the waist. “And we’re lucky, her hair is gorgeous, don’t you think, _amor_?”

She giggled when he nuzzled her shoulder, squirming in protest. “You’re so gross, Marco, let me go!” she whined, slapping at his hands on her stomach. “Fine, fine, fine! Marco, let me go, okay, you’re right!”

He cuddled her a moment longer before letting her wriggle out of his grasp. She took a moment to admire her reflection in the dresser mirror, thick curls pulled tight but gentle against her head, faux pearls hiding the tangles Marco hadn’t had the time or patience to comb out. “You should do Marie and Maria’s hair too,” she snickered, wiggling her eyebrows conspiratorially at him. “They did it themselves this time.”

Marco swatted at her, biting his lip around a grin. “Don’t be so mean, Carmen!” he scolded before he rose to his feet and shooed her off. “Go to Mama, she’ll help you find your shoes.”

She obeyed, shuffling along the carpet in her socks so she could build up static electricity. Marco pretended he didn’t notice.

He took a moment to breathe in Carmen’s absence. It’d been months since he’d last come home, even for just a visit. He’d almost forgotten how hectic it could get, but he knew that his mother would scold him for worrying about leaving her alone with everyone. She knew how to take care of them. She always had.

“Marco!”

He let the breath out on a huff and offered a tired smile to Marie when she stomped through the door. “Tell Maria to give me back my necklace—Mama won’t do it.”

He pursed his lips at her, a playful glint in his eyes as he rose to his feet. “I think I’ve got a better idea,” he offered, skipping past her.

Her eyes were full of wonder. Marco always had the best ideas. “What is it, what is it—is it water balloons? Last time it was water balloons.”

Last time, he thought fondly, she’d been Carmen’s tender ten and not a moody fifteen. How time flew.

He answered her with a grin and finger to his lips as he led her down the stairs towards the living room where he’d left his bags. He pretended to be taking his sweet time in remembering which bag was the one he needed. Could it be this big black one? Could it be this beat up brown one?

She bounced on her toes when he finally decided upon a small one, lifting it up gingerly as if its contents were of utmost importance. “Now, before I give this to you,” he whispered to her. “I want you… to go get Maria.”

Her mouth fell open on a gasp, expression hardening. “You said it was for me,” she snapped.

He tried not to look too triumphant when he crossed his arms and corrected, “I said I had a better idea, _flaquita_.”

She scoffed, but the way she eyed the bag in his hands assured him that he’d already won her over. “Maria!” she called, marching over to the stairs. “Marco brought a gift for us!”

The sound of someone racing down the hall was almost immediate. Maria came pounding down the stairs, and Marco struggled to hold back the ugly laughter building in his throat. Maria, of all the sisters, loved Marco’s gifts by far the most.

“What is it, what is it—is it makeup? Marco, you’re terrible with makeup, you didn’t have to do that,” Maria chattered, following Marie back to stand in front of their brother.

He merely pulled the little black box from its bag. Marie and Maria exchanged excited grins. _Mission accomplished_ , he thought to himself as he popped the box open.

He was glad he’d prepared himself for the squealing, because they were screaming as if they’d never seen jewelry before. “Marco, oh my God, this is so cute—“

“There’s one for both of us!”

“Are those real diamonds?”

Marco relinquished his possession of the necklaces without much of a fight. “Yes, they are cute. Yes, there’s one for both of you. No, they are not real diamonds.” He cocked an incredulous eyebrow at Maria. “On a college student’s budget, _gordi_ , I’d think not.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, but it was halfhearted. She was too busy hooking one of the necklaces around her sister’s neck. “Thank you,” Marie murmured, looking at Marco. “Seriously. You really didn’t have to.”

He waved his hand dismissively at her. “I wanted to. I know you two are always arguing over that stuff.” He narrowed his eyes at the both of them and shook his finger in warning. “But if I hear you two have been arguing over them, I’m going to come back and take them and, who knows, maybe I’ll just have to give them to a girlfriend or something.”

Marie snickered behind her hand. “More like boyfriend.”

Marco swatted at her shoulder, but the disbelieving grin on his face said it all. “I don’t think he’d want a necklace,” he giggled. “Now, both of you, go make sure you’re all ready. We should be leaving in a few minutes.”

“Or now!”

Marco whipped around to see his mother speed-walking down the stairs with Ana in one arm and Carmen under the other. “Let’s go, let’s go—the clock’s a little slow, mijo,” she explained as she walked past him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He merely smiled at her in response. She had nothing to apologize for.

Getting all of the sisters into the car was easier than it seemed—getting the oldest brother in the car was another thing entirely. He ended up with Carmen in his lap, legs bunched around the bump of the center console, squished between Ana’s car seat and Marie’s bony elbows.

“Sorry, _mijo_ , this is the best we can do,” she explained, but Marco smiled and waved her off. He didn’t mind being so curled up. Being close to his family once again was more of a relief than he’d even dared to think it’d be.

Blasting her Marc Anthony on the radio and earning the enthusiastic singing along of all of her girls (and yes, even her boy), Elizabeth Bodt guided the car through the twists and turns of the city. Ana fell asleep to the pattern of bright lights and darkness, and Marco remembered the lyrics to songs he hadn’t heard in months. _Voy a reir, voy a bailar, vivir mi vida._

Yeah. Yeah, he’d missed this. There was only one thing missing.

When their mother finally pulled into the parking lot of the stadium where the graduation was being held, all of the Bodt kids inside flopped out, straightening dresses and tugging at tights and tightening hair pins—Marco’s mother tugged his tie so firm around his throat that he was sure he would choke for a moment, but he grinned at her when she asked if it was okay. Everything was perfect as far as he was concerned.

Like a caravan procession, the family made their way down the halls, following signs that led to the graduation ceremony. Marco wondered for a moment if he’d be able to see his brother in the mess. Cap and gown and all. His chest felt tight just thinking about it.

They found seats together (for once, the twins decided to be seen in public with their family) and sat in comparative silence, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Marco knew it would last a while, but he was prepared to wait as long as it took to congratulate his brother. He’d promised years ago that he would be there. Victor didn’t even know he’d come down from college just for this.

And despite the long, long intro; despite the dragging feet of once-was high school students; despite the quickly cooling temperatures and the loss of his jacket to keep as many of his girls as warm as possible, Marco watched the ceremony with a grin and a swelling pride in his chest. When he saw the swaggering stride of his brother accepting his award, he didn’t leap to his feet and scream like some of his sisters, but his hands shook in his lap with a surge of pure joy.

Once it was all over, he helped his mother herd the girls out of the aisle and back through the halls to the reception room where they’d meet their brother. “Marco,” his mother gasped, “I think I see him— _si_ , yes, there he is!”

Marco whipped his head around along with his sisters in search of the impossibly tall form of their brother, until his mother grabbed his face and pointed. “Mira pa’ alla!” she told him, and he finally caught a good sight of his brother pouring into the room along with his fellow former students.

His mother zoomed towards his side, followed by her little duckling girls, one by one, in a beeline towards his blue cap and gown. “Victor!” they cried, tackling him with hugs and congratulations and screams of joy that rivaled those of other families all around them. “Victor, congratulations!”

Marco hung back, watching with a fondness that made his whole body feel warm. This was his family. These were his siblings; that was his mother. And he was so _proud_.

“Marco?”

Marco’s lips spread into a smile that reflected the warmth starting in his stomach. “Hello, Graduate.”

Victor looked as if he’d gone into shock, eyes wide, hands shaking, jaw dropped. But he recovered as soon as he was affected, and with a shout, he threw himself at his big brother. Marco barely caught him—Victor grew a little taller than him every time they were apart. “I can’t believe you made it, holy shi—“

“Ana,” Marco warned, and Victor pulled back with a sheepish grin.

“Shoot,” he caught himself, eyes sparkling. “I thought you had tests.”

Marco shook his head. “Finished them a few weeks ago.”

Victor scoffed at that, pulling out of his arms and shoving his shoulder. “You lied to me, you as—“ He stopped himself at the look on his mother’s face. “’Sh tree. Ash tree.”

Marco snickered, and Victor stuck his tongue out at him before slinging an arm around his neck. “What brings you home, _hermano_?”

Marco tapped his lower lip as if in deep thought. “I think I heard of a young man graduating today, actually. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is? A little taller than you, I think—“

Victor took advantage of that height to ruffle his brother’s hair. “Maybe if we left, we’d find this mystery guy,” he laughed in reply, but he shot a pleading look to his mother. This was it, the end at last, and he honestly didn’t want to spend any longer with these people than he had to.

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, come on, come on; Victor, would you mind holding Ana in your lap?”

He didn’t mind, never minded. And the ride home seemed shorter than the ride to the graduation, although instead of being filled with music, it was filled with the chattering of the entire family, spilling out of windows and down the road behind them.

Half of the car had fallen asleep by the time they got home, and Marco and Victor helped their mom carry the sleeping girls in: Maria for Marco, Carmen for Victor, Ana for Elizabeth. Marie followed after them, asleep on her feet but determined to eat something before she finally collapsed into bed.

Elizabeth kissed her boys goodnight as she went upstairs to tuck everyone in and sleep herself. But they stayed awake long after lights had gone out, sprawled on the couch and whispering to each other in the dim flickering of the TV.

Marco remembered how they’d gotten there—the years that Victor struggled with school, fighting every step of the way, kicking and screaming. He remembered sitting right there on the couch, comforting his brother when he sobbed into his hands about the unfairness of it all. “I don’t care what happens,” he’d assured him. “I won’t be disappointed in you. I’ll never be disappointed in you.”

Victor yawned and stretched his arms, and Marco smiled at him. “Hey,” he whispered, prompting his brother to turn to him and raise his eyebrows. “I remember when I was—I think I was Ana’s age, younger maybe. Right before you were born. I used to brag about becoming an older brother to all of my friends, and they would tell me that I’d hate it.”

Victor snorted at the words. He’d never met anyone who loved being an older brother as much as Marco did. He was built for it, made for it, born for it. In high school, his friends had introduced him as “Big Brother Marco.”

“They were wrong,” Marco yawned, as if he hadn’t heard Victor’s non-verbal input. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

Victor chuckled at him. “I know, Marco. Everyone knows.”

Marco giggled. “In fact, I think I want kids. Like at least ten of them,” he said, kicking off his shoes.

Victor laughed. “Oh, yeah? So who’s gonna give birth, huh, you or the boyfriend?”

Marco swatted at him, but Victor just ducked out of his reach. “Oh, my God, does everyone but Mama know about the boyfriend?”

Victor rolled his eyes. “Please, Mama has known about the boyfriend since you were two years old, _hermano_.”

Marco was sure his face had turned tomato red, and he covered it with a throw pillow. “I can’t believe this,” he groaned.

But the groan faded into laughter, and Victor joined in, filling the living room and beyond with the sound of their voices. When the sound reached Carmen and she woke up to find them downstairs, they let her sit and watch reruns on Disney with them. Marco fell asleep with her curled up on his stomach, the promise of staying over the rest of the week the last thing he indulged in before he closed his eyes and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco's Hispanic in my headcanon; it's pretty much my ultimate headcanon for him. His dad was Belgian though (and blonde, hint hint).


	3. The Air We Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco had been Jean’s best friend since they were in diapers–-the breath in his chest felt lighter when they were together.

Marco breathed in deep before cooing, “I love you,” to the baby glaring up at him from his place in his crib.

Marco squinted down at the baby, returning his glare with a soft smile. “I love you,” he crooned again, the way his mama did when he was in a bad mood.

“I love you,” she would tell him as she lifted him high into the air where there was nothing but her kisses on his cheeks. He would giggle and smile and squirm happily in her arms.

He leaned his face into the crib, and the baby—Jean, the son of his mother’s best friend—reached up to him to poke at his freckles with thick, clumsy fingers. “I love you,” Marco repeated, and Jean finally giggled in response.

Marco had never grinned so wide.

 

Jean glared up at Marco, golden eyes narrow and daring. “You can _not_ make me blush,” he snapped, but the glitter in his eyes was clearly a challenge.

Marco just smiled at him from his perch on top of the plastic tunnel. He shrugged and kicked his heels against the side of the tunnel, watching the Spiderman colors light up, the very picture of six year old innocence. Jean didn’t believe a second of it, arms crossed and expression incredulous. Between them, the air was usually full of grins and laughter, but now it was tense and anticipating.

It didn’t take long for Marco to break his façade and grin again however, raising his eyes to look at Jean from underneath his lashes. “I love you,” he stated.

Jean’s entire face went red. “Ugh!” he shouted. “Ugh, Marco, you’re so gross!”

Marco laughed, loud and clear, leaning forward and calling it out again, knowing exactly how much “love” made him gag. His parents were the most affectionate people he’d ever met, always kissing each other’s cheeks and Jean’s and cooing love to each other.

“I love you!” Marco called out into the air, nearly succeeding in imitating Jean’s own mother’s voice.

Jean protested, running from the affection, crawling into the yellow tunnel Marco was perched on. “You have cooties, Marco!” Jean cried, his voice echoing in his yellow hiding place.

Marco leaned over to look inside at Jean’s disgusted faces. They were all bright red, and Marco claimed that he had definitely won.

 

“Oh, my gosh, I love you!” Jean screamed, leaping up and down on Marco’s Pokémon bed covers. “You’re really giving this to me!”

Marco shrugged and bit his lips around a shy smile. “Yeah, it’s all yours,” he assured, nodding at the action figure in Jean’s hands.

He would never admit that he wanted to keep it. But he was almost eleven, too old for toys anymore. Jean was only nine. Jean could play with action figures all he wanted.

He had to admit, of course, that it was almost worth the pain of giving it away to see the grin on Jean’s face and hear the sincerity in his proclamations of love.

Jean stopped bouncing so that he could fall on his back. The whole bed bounced, and Marco barely regained his balance before Jean turned his head to him, cheek smushed against Pikachu’s. “Seriously,” he whispered. “I completely love you right now.”

Marco blushed. Jean didn’t say anything about it, too busy making flying noises as he swished his beloved new toy through the warm, summer air.

 

Marco struggled not to fall off balance when Jean hooked his arm around his neck and shook him around, but he stumbled along with his best friend, laughing hard with him at the wildness of their friends’ terrible dancing. Jean held him tight, close to his neck, laughing loud and clear.

“Happy birthday, Marco!” he screamed, and all of their friends agreed, shouting birthday well-wishes at the top of their lungs.

Marco didn’t know how to reply, just laughed harder, tried to shout his gratitude, drowned out by the blast of pop music. Fifteen years old—a man, his father would say, and although he didn’t feel like a man, he did feel like he belonged with these people around him. With Jean by his side, leading their friends in an incredibly off-key chorus of the birthday song.

And at the end of it all, with a grin on his face and no irony in his voice, Jean proclaimed loud and clear, “I love you, man!”

Marco didn’t deflate there in his backyard, or when they stuffed themselves with pizza and cake, or when he opened his gifts. He deflated hours after everyone but Jean had left. He deflated in the darkness once he was sure Jean was fast asleep.

“I love you,” he whispered, but he didn’t add a “man” afterwards. He just whispered love into the still, quiet air a few times to remind himself that it was there. “I love you. I love you.”

He didn’t let himself believe that one day he might hear it from Jean’s mouth, addressed to him, with those glittering gold eyes looking into his own.

 

Marco didn’t know that he could cry so hard, but he was. His lips trembled, and his hands shook, and his eyesight blurred even when he tried to blink his tears away.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you—the words echoed in the stiff air, stung in Marco’s lungs whenever he breathed in.

He didn’t want to curl into himself, but when Jean hissed, “What?” he tucked himself away. He shook his head and let out a shuddering apology.

He tried to act as if he didn’t hear Jean’s footsteps nearing him, but he backed away as he came closer. “I’m sorry,” he choked, “I’m sorry—“

“Marco…”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Jean’s voice become so soft. He dared a glance up and found eyes almost as full of tears as his. A nervous, shuddering smile. “What did you say?” Jean whispered, and his voice was so quiet, so gentle. Impossible—eighteen year old Jean, with a cocky grin and sharp eyes and an eyebrow piercing, he couldn’t sound so gentle.

Marco collapsed. He threw his arms around Jean’s shoulders, sobbed into the crook of his neck, and repeated it. “I love you. I love you, I’m so sorry—I don’t—Jean, I love you, I—“

“Marco, it’s okay,” Jean assured, his hands gentle and sure against the line of Marco’s spine. “It’s okay, don’t cry, Marco, it’s okay—I love you too.”

Marco didn’t stop sobbing at the words, but he found that when his lips twitched it was because he was trying to grin through the tears.

 

“I love you,” whispered against burning skin. “I love you,” and a touch that made Marco’s muscles all tense.

Another I love you and another tender brush of skin against skin left him trembling, biting his lip and unable to speak. He had never let himself think this far ahead. Yes, it had been so long since he’d confessed, since his unrequited crush had become a returned love—but he’d never imagined the way Jean could kiss him, hold him, _touch_ him.

But it was happening, it was happening, and his mind was a mess of _yes_ and _please_ and _there_ and _more_ and _oh God, I love you too_.

But his lips merely trembled around moans, and he couldn’t form the words he wanted to say, so Jean filled the thick, heated air with them himself. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much.”

It wasn’t until what seemed to Marco hours later that he finally managed to catch his breath, and he curled just a bit tighter around Jean. “I love you too,” he murmured, throat sore, words hoarse.

Jean merely chuckled and smiled against the crook of Marco’s neck. Marco smiled too. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so safe as he did just breathing along to the beat of Jean’s heart.

 

“I…  I love you, Marco.” Jean chuckled nervously, hunching his shoulders. “I—fuck, I had a speech and—I completely forgot—I just…”

Marco didn’t care. He was grinning wider than he’d ever grinned before, and even though there were tears spilling down his cheeks one after another, no one could doubt that he looked like the happiest man on earth.

“I love you, Marco,” Jean repeated, lifting the box and the ring inside a little closer to him. “I love you—so much, just so much, I… I want to spend… forever with you. I mean, I feel like we’ve already known each other forever anyway—Momma told me you helped her pick out my diapers for God’s sake—Jesus fuck, that’s completely beyond the point—“

“Yes,” Marco whispered, and although it was quiet, Jean heard him.

He looked up, and his own eyes sparkled with tears. “Yes?” he asked.

And Marco nodded in response, his bangs flying with the force of it. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, Jean, of course—yes—“

Jean surged forward, wrapping his arms around Marco to lift him up and spin him in circles in the air, nothing but love in his eyes. “Yes!” he shouted, his laughter drowned out by the sound of applause from the people in the restaurant around them. “You said yes, fucking yes!”

“I love you, too,” Marco laughed into his hair. And he repeated it, over and over, as if love were in every breath he took, the only word he could remember when he was with Jean.

 

“I love you,” Marco whispered, brushing Elias’s hair back from his face before placing a tiny kiss against his forehead. The boy squirmed in his sleep.

“You’re going to spoil that kid,” Jean murmured from the doorway, watching Marco carefully tuck him into bed.

Marco pursed his lips at him before they spread into a smile. “You’re the one who bought him the entire set of Avengers toys,” he teased. They both knew Jean was the one who couldn’t say no.

Jean merely shrugged, moving over towards Marco and standing behind him to hold him around the waist and perch his chin on his shoulder. “We made a cute kid,” he whispered.

Marco snorted, and Elias wrinkled his brow in his sleep. “He’s not biologically ours,” Marco reminded, but Jean shook his head.

“He is ours though,” he answered, pressing a warm kiss to Marco’s temple. “And you’re mine. I love you.”

Marco sighed, leaning into the kiss. “You know, Mom used to say that love is in the air we breathe.” Jean went silent at the words. Marco’s mother had died the year before, and it was rare for him to mention her anymore. “I used to think it was the cheesiest thing—you know how she was. But…”

Marco deflated in Jean’s arms, lifted his hands to press over the ones Jean had clasped against his stomach. “I believe it now. That’s why there’s so much love around us. We breathe it in and breathe it out. It’s in the air.”

Jean chuckled, pressing soft kisses along the curve of Marco’s neck. “Yeah, it is cheesy,” he murmured. Marco slapped his hands in scolding, but he laughed along. “But I think you’re right. Maybe that’s why I love you so much.”

Marco snickered. “You mean it’s not my staggeringly good looks and parenting skills?”

Jean left an especially teasing kiss against the corner of Marco’s jaw before stepping back from him. “Nah, if I wanted that, I would’ve married Armin.”

Marco scoffed and chased him from the room, but even as they lay giggling in their own bed, nothing inside of him doubted his mother’s words. “I love you,” he whispered between kisses. It was the air he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My magnum opus (for the week). This one had the most notes anyway. Hope you enjoyed that tease of nsfw. *wink wonk*


	4. A Day for Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco used to celebrate every holiday with his family, but there are some holidays that he has to take for himself.

When I was a kid, my family celebrated every holiday that came around. I don’t need my photo album to remember all of the celebrations, but I love the pictures, matching each person to one in my memory. This tall boy here, he’s my brother. This short, stout woman, she’s my mother. There are the cousins, the other four siblings, the aunts and uncles, the crazy grandmother, my father before he passed away.

On Valentine’s Day, he and my mother always went on a date. I, as the eldest sibling of the Bodt clan, was tasked with babysitting. One Valentine’s Day I miraculously got a date myself, and then it was Victor’s turn to take over babysitting. I sat at that restaurant, shaking with nerves and glancing at my phone as discreetly as I could manage—which wasn’t very much, because my date asked me why I was so distracted. I had to admit to him that it was because I was worried about my siblings being left with Victor Bodt, the most well-meaning juvenile delinquent I had ever had the privilege of caring about.

Christmas was spent at the crazy grandmother’s house, Fien Bodt and all one hundred of her pets (okay, so twenty, maybe). But her house was the biggest in the Bodts’ extended family, and we all crowded into her spacious living room to help decorate the enormous tree. Everyone got one ornament at first, and then the kids could run in and attack with popcorn tinsel and bows galore. One year, one of _Grootmoeder’s_ many, many dogs got to the tree before the kids. Victor bust a gullet laughing, and all four of the girls were screaming when it tumbled—timber!—into the flames of the fireplace. _Grootmoeder_ Bodt just laughed along with Victor, and that year we opened Christmas presents around a particularly colorful array of bows in the shape of a tree that came up to my knee when I was standing.

Every Thanksgiving, we met up with the truly extended family, people we’d never have met if not for the annual family reunion. I was the annoying older cousin that pinched the cheeks of the younger children, and I was tasked—as per usual—with keeping the young’uns in line. I was the honorary adult guest at the little kids’ table. Every year, someone new would say grace, and when my turn came around, I was so excited that I completely hammed it up. At least four people cried. Mama’s still proud.

But my favorite holiday story, as told by Mama, is my first Teacher’s holiday at school. I handmade gifts for every one of my teachers, and the principal because, “Technically, he’s a teacher too, because everyone who works at school is a teacher.” I didn’t realize that a Teacher’s holiday was not an actual holiday, but rather a day off. They all got gifts anyway.

It’s just as hard now to think of a day off from work as a holiday as it was then. But after joining the working class myself, I like to think I’m getting there.

It’s the beginning of a three day weekend, and I stretch out on the couch in nothing but PJs; I make sure my coffee has extra cinnamon creamer in it; I plan out a lunch date with my boyfriend; I spend the hours before I have to start getting ready for it with the fading photographs of the holidays I celebrated before. There isn’t any family to take care of and coddle, no. And there isn’t a huge meal cooking in the oven. There isn’t a single decoration gracing my apartment’s walls. But I think that this is the kind of holiday I’ve been needing for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco would be that one kid who bought flowers and gifts for his teachers every holiday. And here's that Belgian half of the family I was talking about.


	5. Dear Mrs. Bodt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco sends his mother letters every week, but when he misses a day, Jean fills in for him.

Dear Mrs. Bodt,

 

I know you’re used to getting a letter for Marco every week, but I’m not him. Don’t worry, though! He’s all right. He’s more than all right. He’s got good grades, and he’s working hard. He’s always really nice to people.

That’s actually why he wasn’t able to send you a letter this week. It’s mostly my fault, but it’s also kind of his. He’s too nice for his own good, honestly. You raised him well that way. Anyway, some people noticed that he’s always writing you letters and begged him to help them write their family letters.

It took way longer than it should’ve. Marco’s not the best writer. That’s Armin’s thing. Oh, Armin is a friend of ours. He’s really good at this stuff. But I think Marco’s just better at saying stuff. He always knows what to say.

But anyway, Marco wasn’t able to write you a letter because he was too busy helping everyone else write one. He helped me too. I sent my Momma a letter, and I hope she’s reading it right now. I think she’ll like it. Marco’s help made it a lot easier to write.

I decided that I should write you a letter too. I don’t know if Marco’s ever mentioned me in his letters, but I’m his best friend. He’s my best friend too. We’re gonna go to the Military Police together and live the good life. I’ll keep him safe for you once we get there, but between you and me, I think he can take care of himself.

I just want you to know that Marco’s doing fine. He misses you and all of his siblings. Hey, how many of them are there anyway? From Marco’s stories, I get the sense that there’s a million of them, but he won’t tell me. He just laughs at me when I ask. I don’t have any siblings, so I wouldn’t know what it’s like.

Anyway, I don’t really have much time or anything else to say. Marco told me you’re very beautiful. He told me he got his eyes and hair from you, and I think they’re pretty nice, so I think you’re beautiful. Marco said complimenting people in letters is good too, so yeah. I hope I meet you someday.

 

Sincerely,

Jean Kirschtein

* * *

Dear Jean,

 

Thank you very much for your letter and your compliments. I’m very glad to hear from you; Marco mentions you all the time, and I was wondering when I’d hear from the great Jean Kirschtein himself. He’s very fond of you.

I’m so happy to hear that Marco’s doing well in training—I hope you’re doing well also? The Military Police is quite a hefty goal, but I think that you two can definitely achieve it. Hard work goes quite a long way.

Thank you for offering to take care of Marco whilst he’s away from home. Between you and me, I think Marco acts a bit tougher than he is. He needs his friends, so always be there for him—for my sake at least.

Marco does indeed have a million siblings. He has a brother and four sisters—all younger than him and all trouble for me. They read all of Marco’s letters to me as well, and I think they’ve taken a liking to you. The twins, Marie and Maria, are quite smitten with you. Oh, but don’t tell Marco I said that, he’s very overprotective when it comes to his girls.

Thank you for sending me a letter in Marco’s place—I’m sure he appreciates it very much. Would you mind giving a secret message to him for me? Tell him, I approve. That’s all. I’m sure he’ll understand it. If his face turns red, then you’ve done it right.

I hope to meet you someday soon as well, Jean. You seem like an upstanding young man.

 

Yours Truly,

Elizabeth Bodt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to add more to this, but it wouldn't come out right. /= (Maybe one day I'll write the letter Jean sent to his mom, I love their relationship.)


	6. Keep Up the Good Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco doesn’t have the privilege to hope for change, but that doesn’t stop him.

Everything’s happening in slow motion. Marco feels like he’s in a place outside of time. His hands are shaking, someone’s screaming, his body is light like air and heavy like dirt. “Marco, come on!” Someone’s grabbing his arm. “We have to run!”

He feels his feet moving, but it’s like he’s still stuck in place. Over there—no, wait, we have to help Eren—why are we leaving now—“Jean!”

When he comes back to reality, everything is so loud. There are hundreds of people around he and Jean it seems, running from the police sirens, the hoses that mercilessly spray them into place with water. He can see Eren still standing his ground, screaming at the top of his lungs, Mikasa beside him with fire in her eyes, Armin behind them, calling for help in vain.

He’s being dragged away, Jean’s nails digging into his bicep. He rips his gaze away from Eren just as an officer meets him in the middle, brandishing his baton like the weapon it is. “Jean, stop, we have to help them!” he cries, and he’s surprised that Jean even hears him above the ruckus going on around them.

But he doesn’t listen. “Marco, no!” he screams back, dragging Marco beside him so that he can look at him. “They have guns, Marco, going back is suicide.”

Marco grits his teeth, and to Jean’s shock, pulls away. “I’m going back!”

He gets about three steps back towards Eren and the others, but what he sees almost makes him stop in his tracks. Eren’s on the ground—there’s no blood, but there’s pain on his face; Mikasa’s holding a police baton in her hands, snapped in half; Armin’s clawing at the officer’s face with a rage in his expression that Marco’s never seen or expected from him.

He feels people pushing against him from all sides, but he doesn’t know what to do. Jean won’t be waiting behind him if he turns back; he can’t help Eren anymore; what’s he supposed to do?

“Marco!” He hears his voice—it’s Jean’s, screaming for him. “Move!”

He’s turning his head towards Jean, but he doesn’t make it all the way before he feels Jean’s hand in the back of his shirt, wrenching him backwards—but not in time.

He doesn’t hear the gunshot go off, but he feels the rip of a bullet through his skin, shattering the bone of his temple from the sheer force. There’s a scream clawing out of his chest, but he doesn’t hear it, only feels—feels, feels, feels the pain exploding in his face, wants it gone, but he can’t squirm away from it.

Everything’s a blur of red and pain, he sees Jean’s face, he hears his voice sobbing out his name—there are shoes pounding around him, he thinks there’s rain because he can feel cold pinpricks all over his body—is he breathing, is he seeing, is he alive—he doesn’t know.

* * *

When Marco wakes, the first thing he notices is that it’s awfully quiet. The last thing he remembers is nothing but noise. He’s not exactly sure if it’s a relief or not.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes right away, so he keeps them closed for a moment, mentally preparing himself for what he might see. He focuses on what he does hear first: there’s the slightest huff of breathing, a rustle of clothing, the flipping of someone staring at a book but not reading it. He hears a familiar sigh and smiles at the sound. _Jean_. That’s something he can comfort himself in.

He opens his eyes, just a bit—eye. Eye. He opens his eye.

He’s frozen for a moment, single eye wide with shock. He feels his breath starting to come faster, and a tiny gasp manages to make its way out. Eye, eye, eye, why only one eye—he can’t—he can’t _feel_ his other one, and it’s so strange, because he never really felt it before, but now it’s like he _knows_ —

“Marco?”

His eye snaps over to look at Jean, and there’s a sharp pain exploding in his empty eye socket at the sudden movement. He cries out in pain, his hand shooting up to cover the wound. Jean’s hand shoots over to stop it in his tracks. “No, no, no, stop that, you can’t be moving around too fast, okay?” he scolds, his voice rough and raw. From crying? Marco can’t think about it.

He closes his eye and takes a deep breath. Okay. Okay. Jean’s here, it’s fine. You’re fine. It can’t be so bad.

When he opens his eye again, it’s to Jean’s nervous face, staring down at him with bated breath. Jean swallows, and Marco can hear it. “You okay?” he whispers.

Marco’s lips twitch as if he wants to smile. He’s not sure if he wants to. He’s starting to remember—little things here and there. A protest rally. A police siren. Screaming and running. Eren and Armin and Mikasa standing their ground and ending up on it. Pain in his temple. Just pain.

He swallows thickly and then very carefully shrugs at Jean. “It… doesn’t hurt…” he whispers.

His voice sounds dry and gravelly. Jean notices and leans back, reaching for a glass of water left on the bedside table and moving back towards Marco. With careful hands, he helps Marco sit up in bed—it’s then that Marco notices the wires all around him, the tube sticking out of the inside of his elbow. He’s in a hospital. It makes sense. His eye is gone.

Marco takes a slow sip, grateful for Jean’s help, and he admits that to Jean after a beat of silence. Jean just shakes his head, waves his hand dismissively. “I’m just… glad you’re awake.”

Marco nods, his fingers twisting in the bed sheets. “What… What happened?” he whispers.

Jean scoffs. “You can’t even remember?” he asks. His voice is bitter, but Marco knows that he means it in teasing. He stays quiet on the subject until Jean sighs and continues. “You got shot. In the face. Shattered your temple.” He swallows and looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. His book has been abandoned on the bedside table. He wasn’t reading it anyway. “You… you were going to keep your eye, actually. But it got infected and… there was… ‘nothing they could do.’” It’s a sharp movement, when he ducks his head and digs his hands through the longer hair of his undercut. “Fucking…”

Marco just nods. He looks down at his legs and attempts to pull his knees closer to himself. He manages, but he can’t curl up the way he wants to. Into a ball. “What about Eren?” he whispers. “And them?”

“Bruises, scrapes,” Jean replies. “For Armin and Mikasa at least. Eren can’t walk anymore.”

Marco suddenly wants to cry. The feeling is so overwhelming—to just start sobbing. This. This is it, this is why what they’re doing matters—because of shit like this, senseless violence. But he doesn’t cry. He just curls his legs just a little closer to himself.

It’s Jean that cries, unexpectedly. Marco can see his shoulder’s shaking, hear the obnoxious sniffs, the squelch of his nose when he rubs his hand over it. “I can’t fucking believe this,” he chokes.

Marco reaches out to him, and he lurches forward into Marco’s lap, sobbing into the bed sheets. “It’s all right, Jean,” Marco tries to comfort, his hands dropping to run through Jean’s hair. “It’s okay, we’re alive.”

“What good does that do, Marco?” he chokes, face still buried in Marco’s lap. “For people like you, and Eren, and Mikasa—what good does it do? There are still going to be more racist douchebags ready to throw you to the fucking dogs just because you look a little different—it’s all fucking shit and you know it.”

Marco swallows. He’s not going to cry. “I know. But I’d rather be alive in all of this—this _shit_ , then dead.”

Jean sniffs, one of his hands snaking over to rub along Marco’s ribs. Marco never curses—never. He knows it’s for emphasis, to make him feel better. It makes him feel worse, because if Marco Bodt has to curse to make a point, then that curse belongs there. Everything is shit, and they both know it.

He lifts his head to look up at Marco. There’s only one eye looking down at him. The socket of the other is mostly covered in white bandages, hiding even the freckles of his cheek from his sight. “I just want things to change, Marco,” he breathes, swallowing the next tears that threaten to fall.

Marco sets his jaw and nods. “I know. I know you do, Jean. But change takes time. We’ve got to fight for it. It’s going to take a few lost battles, you know? A few casualties. But we’ll get there.”

Jean sits up a bit, and a few stray tears find their way down his face. He goes slowly, so that when Marco’s eye follows him, he doesn’t strain the still healing muscles of his empty socket. “I don’t want you to be one of those casualties, Marco,” he whispers.

Marco looks back down at his lap. There are wet marks in the blankets where Jean’s tears pooled. “I don’t want to be one either. But I’m willing to be. I want to fight as much as you do, Jean.”

“Marco, no,” Jean gasps. His hand shoots up to Marco’s face and turns his chin roughly so they’re looking at each other again. “Don’t say that,” he snaps.

Marco stares at Jean, his gaze almost daring. “I’d know what I was dying for, wouldn’t I?” he whispers.

“You should just quit the stupid fight.”

“I’m not going to let this missing eye hold me back, Jean.”

“Then let _me_ hold you back.”

Marco squints at Jean. “You said you wanted to fight,” he whispers. “To change things.”

Jean’s lips are trembling when he glances away. “I don’t want you to fight. I don’t want Eren or Mikasa to fight. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Marco shakes his head, but Jean’s hand just moves up to his cheek—the one covered in bandages, farthest from him. “I’m not giving up like this, Jean. That’s very kind of you, but I want to see change too, you know.”

Jean’s eyes raise to Marco’s, and for a moment, Marco forgets how to breathe. There’s always been something more intense about Jean, but he sees it now more than ever. In the way Jean stares at him as if he’s the most beautiful dumbass he’s ever laid eyes on. The picture of exhausted appreciation. “Marco,” he breathes.

Jean’s gaze shoots over to the door for a brief moment. Marco hasn’t heard it open, but he turns his head the slightest bit to look. Jean’s hand brings his face back around before he can see anything, and then there’s a warm pressure against his mouth—thin, chapped lips pushing against his, a forceful intensity poured into the circle of his lips against Marco’s. Marco’s eyes flutter shut, his lips tremble as he returns the kiss, his fingers twisted in the bed sheets.

It’s a moment, and then it’s over, and Jean returns to scolding him in hushed whispers. “Please, Marco. We’re done with protests. I can’t… I can’t watch you get hurt again, you’ve got to… we’ve got to stop.”

Marco doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he’s frozen in place, but he feels more warm than he ever has before. As if he’s melted into his bed sheets, his body in another world entirely, outside of time. He wants to agree to everything Jean’s saying. It sounds pretty ideal.

But he remembers that he’s not white, like Jean or Armin is. He’s Hispanic, and Eren’s Native American, and Mikasa’s Asian, and none of them will ever be cut any slack, because they’re a different skin color. What do you know, he’s gay too. That’ll never fly.

He shakes his head. “Maybe peaceful protests will be our thing,” he whispers. “We can be Flower Children.”

Jean leans back a bit to stare at Marco, eyes sparkling with disbelieving tears. “Marco…”

Marco lifts a hand to shush Jean, ignoring any uncertainty in his heart. “I just want things to change,” he whispers, repeating Jean’s own words, knowing Jean can’t argue with them.

Jean huffs out a disbelieving laugh, blinking back tears and biting down hard on his lips. “You think anything will ever change, Marco?” he chuckles.

Marco’s hand hesitantly slides towards Jean’s on the bed. Jean travels the rest of the distance, his fingers sliding between Marco’s. “Yeah,” Marco murmurs. “Yeah, I think so. It’s only 1969, Jean. The world’s got a long ways to go, you know.”

Jean shakes his head, a tearful smile on his face. He leans over and presses his lips to Marco’s again, chaste, but that’s okay, more than okay. “Then let’s go put flowers in shotguns, I guess,” he whispers. “Flower Child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* this is my favorite entry. Sorry about the angst, I didn't mean to. I can promise you that Jean and Marco lead a very flowery life after this. Marco's a man of his word.


	7. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco’s friends like to tease him, but they always mean well, and he appreciates that.

“Come on, come on, just get—in—there—you big nerd!”

Marco just laughed at her. He was barely fighting against Sasha’s skinny hands, but she made no headway until Connie head butted them both from behind, throwing them all in a heap onto the seat inside the photo booth. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and Marco found himself laughing even harder.

Connie was wearing sunglasses that were far too big for his face, and Sasha was wearing a boa that completely enveloped her head in feathers. Marco had a sparkly cowboy hat big enough for everyone in the booth. As the first picture flashed—catching only the open-mouthed, closed-eyed guffawing laughter of the three friends—Jean and Eren started to crawl over laps to get in on the action.

“Quit pushing, Jaeger!” Jean laughed.

“Get your ass out of my face, Kirschtein!” Eren snickered, planting his hand flat on said bony ass and shoving him face first into Sasha’s lap.

She merely grinned and crossed her ankles. “Feel free to stay there all day, Jean, but I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate it,” she laughed, nudging Connie in the side.

Marco grabbed the back of Jean’s collar and pulled his red face out of Sasha’s crotch to the sound of the third photograph going off—the second had caught his unfortunate face plant.

He and Eren had matching headbands, Jean’s dark blue with a gigantic star and Eren’s bright pink with a comparably big heart. They settled in the indents between everyone’s legs, Jean wrapping one arm around Marco’s neck and one arm around Sasha’s—Eren doing the same with Connie and Sasha. The fourth picture documented the struggle to get into place, and the fifth was the first picture of them all, faces smushed together. The sixth was the sloppiest kiss Connie and Sasha could manage and the mixture of surprise and disgust and embarrassment on their friends’ faces.

“You’re so lucky Armin and Mikasa aren’t here,” Eren sighed when he squirmed out of the photo booth a moment later. “We’d really show you what making out looks like.”

Jean stuck his finger in his mouth and gagged back at Marco, at which Marco merely snickered. Sasha made a face at Eren, pulling down her eyelids and opening her mouth exaggeratedly wide. Connie stuck his tongue out at him and pulled Sasha against his side. “Your boyfriend and girlfriend have nothing on my posse, am I right, boys and girl?”

“We’re not your boyfriends, Connie,” Jean deadpanned, and Marco merely hid a smile and blush behind his hand.

Connie just cackled—everyone knew of course that he was way too into Sasha to share any of that love anyway. “The more you deny it, the more I’ll fight for it.”

Marco turned his attention to the slot slowly spitting out their group pictures. Last one first, and then with a snip the rest of the pictures spilled out. By the time he pulled them out, Sasha was leaping onto his back. “Hey, the pictures look awesome!” she cried out.

“Ow, Sasha,” he giggled, “You’re pulling my hair!”

She gave it one last good tug before reaching around him to steal the photographs. “Okay, so last one is definitely my best one!” she announced. Eren fake-gagged along with Jean. “And then Jean looks best in the third one, and Marco—oh, holy shit, Marco!”

It was Marco’s turn to lean over her shoulder to look at the pictures. He didn’t see what was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.

She just shook her head in wonder. “This is magical,” she gasped. “Marco, you look gorgeous. In, like, all of these.”

Connie, Jean, and Eren all stared at each other in turn. “What, no way.” They knew Marco was particularly photogenic, but considering all the awkward squirming around they’d been doing in that photo booth, they highly doubted that he could look flawless in every picture.

It went to Connie first, and the way his jaw dropped was almost proof enough. Eren took it next and whistled, eyes going a little wider and shinier. “Damn,” he breathed.

Jean snatched it out of his hands. “Quit ogling, you pervs. You’re already dating people,” he scolded, before straightening out the pictures—and consequently freezing in place. His entire face turned bright red, his mouth moving in shocked circles as if he were trying to say something but couldn’t come up with one. And then he managed a tiny, “Oh.” His eyes snapped up to Sasha. “I see your point.”

“I don’t,” Marco complained, reaching over to take the pictures back. He had to admit he looked nice, but not exactly sensational.

“You can’t see it because you’re modest,” Sasha sighed, patting his shoulder. “Just look at this, Marco: where our faces are distorted and awkward, the camera consistently captures you at the perfect moment. It’s miraculous.”

He squinted at the photograph. Okay, so that was true. He didn’t look awkward or distorted in any of them. In fact, maybe he did look… pretty nice. Grinning at the camera, laughing with his friends, shooting Jean a caring look, puckering his lips at the camera.

“It’s official!” Eren cried, interrupting Marco’s thoughts. He pretended to swoon, collapsing back against Jean’s chest and earning spluttering insults from him. “Marco is officially the hottest of us all.”

Sasha gasped and threw herself into Connie’s arms. “Our wee child! He’s finally grown into his awkward haircut!”

It was Marco’s turn to splutter in protest. “You guys!” he squeaked, his hands self-consciously combing through his perfectly parted bangs.

Even Jean got in on the fun, cooing about how they’d finally watched their precious cinnamon roll grow from awkward teddy bear to hot next door neighbor. It had all come full circle. Marco would be lying if his face wasn’t red as a tomato by the time Sasha and Jean had looped an arm each around his waist and they’d all begun their retreat to the food court. “You guys are horrible,” he huffed, his lips spreading into a sweet smile as he squinted at Jean.

Eren poked his side from around Connie and Sasha’s backs. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Bodt. No matter how hot you get.”

Marco just giggled in response. “I love you guys,” he murmured to himself.

But it still earned him a nuzzle from Sasha and Jean each, a snicker from Connie, a grin from Eren. “We love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, polyamorous Shiganshina Trio; I couldn't decide who to reference, so I was just like, both? Both is good. (And little bit of future JeanMarco hinting if you squint and ship it.) Hope you liked Marco Week! It's still open for the next two weeks, so try your hand at it! =D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you like my writing and want updates for more (including the main fic I'm working on) feel free to check out my writing sideblog, novelistangel.tumblr.com.
> 
> Comments, feedback, or questions are always welcome! Have a nice day!


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